Geek Actually Season 1 Omnibus

by Cathy Yardley

  “Yeah. Kinda the anti-Sterling Knight, huh?” The woman laughed.

  Michelle felt her eyes widen.

  “Heard you were his editor,” the woman said, leaning in conspiratorially—something that was ruined by the fact that she was yelling to be heard. “God, that man is an ass! Do you know what he said to his agent—his last agent—at the holiday party? He…”

  “Michelle.”

  She turned and froze.

  “Hello, Ted,” she said, her tongue feeling thick and clumsy. Even though it was the end of the day, he looked completely pulled together. His wavy brown hair was combed and gelled and looked like something out of an ad. You could have used his tie as a straightedge, and his shirt looked somehow freshly laundered. He was crisp as a new dollar, and he was looking at her with an expression of—distaste? Disapproval?

  Why the fuck was he here, anyway?

  “Will you excuse me?” she said to the woman whose name she couldn’t remember, and stepped away before the woman could respond. “Ted,” she said, proud that her voice stayed even. “What are you doing here? This is hardly your scene.” Which was true: his agency was far more lofty—better clientele, better location, swankier digs.

  “A friend invited me.”

  There was something about the way he said “friend” that made her eyes narrow in reflex. Something about the tone. “Female friend?”

  He sighed deeply. “Just a friend, Michelle. Not that it matters at this point, I suppose.”

  She felt the words like a slap. Blasé. He sounded so. Fucking. Blasé.

  “Although since you’re here, I thought I’d let you know that I think I’m missing some things,” he said.

  She frowned. “I included lists in the boxes of the items.” She’d been a little manic and spiteful at that point.

  “Yes, but I’d like to go through the apartment myself, to see what we both might have forgotten.”

  They were silent for a moment. Michelle felt her chest compress. There ought to be something, she thought. Some argument. She ought to be arguing for him to stay, or telling him to get the fuck out of her life. But no—there was just this empty feeling, a hollow sort of anger at the unfairness of it, bewilderment at the shock of it all—and discomfort that she had nothing to say or do or emote in the face of the man who had triggered it all.

  “Okay, well, I won’t keep you,” she said, then paused at the deeper implication of her words. “Have a good night.”

  She stepped past him, hurrying down a narrow corridor. Thank God, she found the bar. Or what they were calling the bar. It was a folding table that they’d set up outside the cubicles. There were—good grief, were those red Solo cups? Was this a publishing party or a kegger? The booze itself was cheap, too. Not quite Bud Lime cheap, but the vodka was Popov. She didn’t care. She made herself a cranberry vodka, very pale pink. And downed it, wincing.

  She glanced back, and thought she saw Ted’s silhouette. She dodged, weaving through the crowd like a needle. Then she felt a breath of air, and the delicious smell of smoke. She couldn’t help herself. She beelined towards it.

  There was a small balcony, and smokers were huddled together, drink in one hand, cigarette in another. She took a deep breath, absorbing the sensations, if only secondhand.

  “You quit, huh?”

  She glanced over. A man in a dark charcoal suit was standing there, his tie casually loosened, his shirt collar unbuttoned. He had blond hair cut military short, and his face was… nondescript, she supposed. Not handsome, not pretty, not even particularly ugly. Hazel eyes, an average nose, a mouth nobody would write home about. But he was staring at her with intensity.

  “Sorry?” she asked.

  “You quit smoking,” he said, “but you miss it.”

  She smiled. He sounded like he was trying to be Sherlock Holmes. “Maybe I just wanted some fresh air.”

  “This is the last place you’d get fresh air,” he said with a small grin. He put down his bottle of beer on the nearby ledge and held out a hand. “Nick Vicente. Publisher, Anaïs Press.”

  She shook the proffered hand. “I’m not familiar,” she admitted.

  “We just started recently. Erotica,” he said, his smile widening.

  “Oh? Digital only?”

  He made a face. “No. We’re not like those housewife-erotica publishers, pumping out Fifty Shades knockoffs.”

  Michelle nodded. She might not like all the stuff from the small erotica publishers, but she respected the folks that tackled that market. And it certainly was lucrative, even if it didn’t earn the accolades the rest of the genres did.

  As if she’d asked, he stepped forward. “We’re more like Nerve magazine. Do you know it?”

  She didn’t know why, but her stomach clenched. She’d seen Nerve, sure. She’d read a few of the stories. But something about that and his intensity was making her tingle, just a little. Which was strange. She hadn’t felt or thought about tingles in months. Perhaps that was the other reason why she wasn’t devastated by Ted’s departure, she thought, and frowned.

  “Okay, so you’re publishing more shocking erotica?”

  “Not shocking,” he protested softly, his voice dipping lower. She could smell his cologne, nothing overpowering, but… sophisticated was all she could think. Expensive. “Thought-provoking. Maybe avant-garde. Definitely… experimental.”

  She felt her breathing go a little shallow. “Experimental,” she said.

  “We’re putting out some art books this year,” he said, and she saw him glance at the other smokers, who were raucously relaying some drunken story of how a nightmare New York Times-bestselling author had behaved on his last book tour. Nick leaned forward, whispering in her ear, “I’ve got some layouts in my office. It’s down a few floors. Want to go look?”

  She pulled back, staring at him. Was this guy propositioning her?

  She let out a chuckle. “Confident, aren’t you?” She wasn’t angry. Normally, she would be, but… she shook her head. Maybe it was running into Ted. Maybe it was all the other shit this week. Maybe it was the fact that she tingled and the term “experimental” was part of it.

  He smiled. She liked that he was slightly rumpled and smoking and NOT TED.

  “Sure,” she heard herself say, and shrugged. “Why don’t you show me your… layouts.”

  ELLI

  The house was quiet, just the way she liked it. For the moment, she was blessedly alone and surrounded by some of the most beautiful fabric she’d ever seen. Some people liked to listen to music while they worked, but Elli preferred silence. Only then could she find the rabbit hole and disappear inside it, taking her sketches and cosplay along with her.

  Princess Vivian was going to be a challenge, but that’s why Elli had chosen her. The character felt straight out of the Renaissance, Elli’s idea of what Queen Jane Seymour might have looked like in one of her more maudlin moments. Everything about the outfit would be elaborate, from the boundless blonde curls to the enormous hoop skirt to the embroidery on the bodice. All finished off by glittering jewels dripping from her décolletage and fingers—made from rhinestones, of course.

  Elli’s favorite part—the one that would make most people crazy—was that she didn’t have a pattern to work from. Just photos of the character in different positions, most of them fairly low resolution. The dress itself looked like taffeta, but that wasn’t a practical fabric for all-day wear, especially a day spent trekking around a con. Her immediate thought for substitution was velvet, which would flow and wear better, but conceal some detail on the split and ribboned sleeves. It was a conundrum—and both fabrics came in at around forty-five to fifty dollars per yard. The salesperson had suggested she buy cheaper velveteen (“no one will even know”), but Elli hadn’t spent weeks listening to picky people demand half-caf lattes for some poor imitation.

  In the end, she’d gone with velvet because it felt so luxurious and regal. Now, sitting here surrounded by fifteen yards of the plush red fabric, El
li knew she’d made the right choice. If only it weren’t such a bear to sew.

  She’d barely begun on her second section when she heard the door open upstairs. It was spring, but a chill still hung in the air, causing a vacuum that made Elli’s basement door rattle against the draft. Great. Someone was home, and judging from the footsteps coming down the stairs, had every intention of bothering her. She loved her parents—loved living with them, even—but right now, she was busy.

  She could hear her father upstairs. “See if she wants to eat,” he called.

  Her mother, Esther, breezed right through the door without knocking. Her eyes alit on the red velvet. “Well, isn’t that lovely.”

  “Thanks, Mom,” Elli said.

  Never able to keep her hands to herself, Esther Kelman first lightly brushed her hand against her daughter’s face, then leaned over and ran it along the fabric. “Who is this one, again?”

  “Princess Vivian from Dragon’s Crown,” Elli said.

  “Is she from that HBO show?” her mother asked, squinting down at the table and rifling through various piles of fabric and linings. “The blonde one who can fly?”

  Her mother was thinking of Game of Thrones. Esther Kelman didn’t have a head for details—she was a big-picture kind of person. They were very different in that way. Elli knew her mother’s brain had scanned quickly for any regal blonde woman in period garb and had latched on to a Targaryen. Not that Elli wouldn’t love to dress up like the Mother of Dragons, but that was a different world entirely.

  “It’s a game,” Elli told her mother. Were she talking to anyone else, she would’ve launched into a ten-minute description of Dragon’s Crown, but her mother’s idea of gaming was Pictionary.

  “I think they made a show out of it,” her mother said, squeezing her daughter’s chin. She couldn’t let go of the image of Dany, apparently.

  Esther unbuttoned her spring jacket and unwound the belt, pulling up a seat next to Elli. “I feel like I haven’t seen you in days,” her mother said, patting her knee. “How is the coffee shop? And Aaron? If he’s working you too hard, just say the word. I’ll give him a talking-to myself.”

  Elli smiled. She leaned forward and hugged her mother. “Mr. P. is very nice, but it wasn’t the job for me.”

  At this, Esther stiffened. “Oh?”

  Of course her mother would be upset that she’d quit. Esther was always upset when Elli chose to make an abrupt switch, but she’d get over it. Elli couldn’t be tied down to something as constricting as a coffee shop. Set hours, rules about what she could and couldn’t wear… It was a means to an end, and Elli had reached the end. She wished her mother could understand that for once, but Elli wasn’t going to stress about it.

  “I’ve really got to focus on Princess Vivian and the con,” Elli replied, hoping it cut off whatever advice her mother was about to give. No such luck, as it turned out.

  “Well…” The words stalled in her mother’s throat. Esther didn’t seem to know what to say. “It’s just that Aaron is a friend of ours. He was relying on you.”

  “Believe me, he doesn’t need me,” Elli replied, turning back to her work.

  “Elli, dear…” Her mother sighed. It was condescending, but Elli was used to that. She’d learned to ignore it.

  “The job was only ever supposed to be temporary. You knew that.” Maybe it was a shorter duration than her mother expected, but Elli had never hidden her desire to make money and walk away. If Esther had told Mr. P. something different, that was on her.

  The door opened again and her father, Ross, came into the basement apartment. Elli was relieved to see him. “I have dinner on the table. What’s the holdup?”

  Esther looked over her shoulder at her husband. “Elli was just telling me she quit Aaron’s coffee shop.”

  Her father stared back at her mother, as though waiting for more. He didn’t look surprised. “All right…” Ross Kelman hesitated for another moment before adding, “And why is that holding up dinner?”

  “Aaron has to be upset,” Esther replied. “He was counting on our Elli.”

  Ross locked eyes with Elli, his mouth breaking into a slight smile. Her father understood her, even if her mother didn’t. “We told him she wasn’t interested in anything long-term.”

  Esther’s expression turned to one of irritation. “Ross.”

  “So he’ll get over it,” her father said. His tone made Elli laugh. He turned to his daughter and said, “Are you hungry?”

  Elli looked back at the red velvet. There was so much to be done. Then again, she’d only just started and the mention of food was making her stomach rumble. “I think I am,” she said.

  “Then come up and eat before it gets cold,” Ross told her.

  Elli stood up, the three of them moving toward the stairs. “So, what are you planning on doing next?” her mother asked. Elli could tell that Esther was trying to keep her tone light and placid. It just made her sound more high-strung.

  “I have so much work to do on the princess,” Elli replied, laughing. “I can’t possibly start thinking about future ideas yet.” She knew her mother was talking about another job or a “career choice.” But Elli wasn’t in the mood to continue this conversation, so she played dumb.

  “Sweetheart, don’t plenty of the people who go to these conventions keep their jobs?” her mother prodded. “What about those girls you talk to in those chat rooms? Don’t they all have big jobs?”

  “And they’re all always stressed out and manic. No, thank you,” Elli replied.

  “We need you to get a job.” This was a more blunt approach than Esther had yet tried. It surprised and stung Elli a bit. “Elli, sweetie, you can’t just play dress-up in the basement forever.”

  It wasn’t dress-up. She wasn’t a little girl in a cheap costume shop, picking out her favorite character for Halloween. She’d moved so far beyond that, but it was still the same thing to Esther.

  “Remember when you used to dress as that girl from that movie? Anastasia?” Her father chuckled. “I think you watched that fifty times. It was the first costume you ever tried to make.”

  Elli’s eyes widened. Anastasia! She’d loved that! How could she have forgotten how much she loved that? Her sewing skills had been laughably bad at that point, but she was light-years better now. Elli’s mind whirred. Fairy Con she’d be Princess Vivian, but the next con—San Diego, if she could afford it—she could do a full Anastasia-being-presented outfit. It’d be awesome!

  “Don’t encourage her, Ross,” her mother admonished.

  Her euphoria popped like a balloon. There was also the issue of having spent the money Mr. Pasternak had given her on the finishing touches for the Princess Vivian dress. And at the moment, she just had enough to cover her way to New Orleans—and she’d probably need to pack some granola bars, because meals might be kind of expensive.

  “So what are your plans?” her mother pressed.

  Elli sighed. The conclusion was inevitable. “I guess… I’m going to get a job.”

  CHRISTINA

  The last fight scene involved so much blood it looked like a level-five Carrie explosion. The best part about their stage blood was that it was made partly with dish detergent, making it easier to clean off. The worst part was that it also contained corn syrup, so fight scenes always smelled like a pancake breakfast. Their set became the grossest IHOP in town.

  Generally, this wasn’t Christina’s problem. Actors couldn’t just walk away when they were blood-red and sticky, so there wasn’t a lot for her to do. But today she had Vivi, who wanted her around at all times. And Vivi didn’t like having the blood on her face, so she demanded it be removed and reapplied during any big lighting setup.

  “She’s a fucking lunatic,” growled Stassi, the makeup artist. “It has to match. I can’t keep taking it off, it’s too hard to get it back on just the right way.”

  Christina stood out of earshot of Vivi, having been cornered by the glam squad. Stassi was kind of a bitch, b
ut she did have a point here. “You know it’s our job to treat them like pretty fucking princesses. Do you think catering really enjoys scrubbing the grill before cooking a dry piece of salmon just so that Miranda doesn’t ingest a single ounce of oil?”

  Stassi threw up her hands. “Nuh-uh. I’ve done this three times. This setup is forty-five minutes or less. I’ve got a ton to do and that doesn’t include coddling Bikini Barbie over there.”

  “I’ll talk to her,” Christina replied, shrugging. This shit was getting old and her buzz had worn off an hour ago.

  “You do that.” The makeup artist had barely finished speaking before she and her compatriots stormed away like the mean girls in an ’80s movie.

  Christina walked over to Vivi, who was drinking Tab through a straw. She meant to launch into the blood issue immediately, but the drink caught her by surprise. “Are you drinking a Tab? Didn’t they stop making that around the same time as those Jane Fonda workout records?” Her prim and perfect mother used to work out to those records every day, religiously imitating each pose in the accompanying picture booklet.

  “No, they still make it,” Vivi replied.

  “Where did you even get it? I only saw Coke stuff over at crafty.”

  Vivi laughed, absently waving at someone who walked past. “I sent the craft service girl out to get it. She was kind of a bitch about the whole thing.”

  “You sent her to get it… because you only drink Tab?” Christina asked.

  “Because it’s important for people to know, right from your first day, that you’re the boss,” Vivi answered, smiling. She took another sip through her straw.

  This chick’s ever-changing level of crazy and hot was a little dizzying. No wonder Warren was afraid of her and the havoc she’d wreak on the PAs.

  “What did the makeup girl say? Is she going to get wipes?”

  Fuck. Christina had managed to keep this job for two years, through selling drugs, showing up drunk, and telling a producer to eat her. And now she was going to lose it because of a leggy, spoiled actress. “Not exactly. She thinks you’re behaving like a see-you-next-Tuesday.”

  There was a long pause and then Vivi burst into laughter. “Yeah. Yeah, I probably am.”